


The Easterling - Book Three

by Helcaraxe



Series: The Easterling [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Monsters, POV Multiple, Swords & Sorcery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27995109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helcaraxe/pseuds/Helcaraxe
Series: The Easterling [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000476





	The Easterling - Book Three

Pain.

Nothing else existed but pain. And cold. The ever present, biting cold.

“Hold him up.”

No matter how far he tried to escape, it would always catch up with him. And it’s not like he could escape very far: he would succumb to the cold hands of Skyrim before he ever made it out of Eastmarch.

“How many times…?” A fist struck him in the stomach. If he had eaten anything in the past three days, he would have vomited. “… do we have to…?” Another punch. “… explain to you…” And another. Whoever held him let him go, and he fell to the trampled snow below.

“… that we don’t want your kind here!?” A shoe connected with his face with the force of a rearing horse. Or maybe not. But did it really matter? It was enough to paint his world into a myriad of colours. He tasted blood in his mouth. Was that a tooth?

“Filthy piece of trash.”

The words. They were worse than any punch or kick. A man could get used to those. Some even enjoyed them. And hey: it was easier when the cold numbed him to the point where he barely felt pain. But it couldn’t numb him to words. They cut deeper than any wind, struck stronger than any fist. His tormentors revelled in using them to hurt him, to let him know what they thought of him. How below them he was.

“Look at that,” one of his bullies, a ginger tall for his age said with a mocking smile. “Not right at all. Disgusting!” He was pointing towards him. Where, he couldn’t tell.

“Of course,” confirmed the leader, a large, blond-haired kid with hatred in his eyes. “What else’d you expect from their kind?”

Someone grabbed his hair and pulled him up; thank Shor he couldn’t feel his scalp anymore. But the elevation gave him a good view of his assailants: six of them in total. All children, just like him. All dressed in rags, just like him. All red-faced from the chill, just like him.

All normal; nothing like him.

Someone stood up before him. It was their leader. From so close up, he had a good view of his crooked teeth and brown eyes. They were filled with hate and loathing. He spat in his face.

“But not to worry, little freak,” he said, wiping the saliva from his lips. “We have a way of fixing you.”

The remaining children cackled. It was a twisted, manic laughter, devoid of joy and filled with nothing but malevolence. The leader took a step back. Something gleamed in his hand. A knife. Probably belonged to his mother, who probably used it to cut carrots and radishes. What would she do if she knew what would it be used for now?

“Shaving time.” Laughter again. It seemed he was really at the short end of it this time.

“Hey!”

They all turned to his right. He tried to follow suit, but could barely muster enough strength to do so. All he could see was the outline of a person dressed in white, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding snow.

The leader assumed a threatening stance, drawing up all of his childish height and bravado before he bellowed at the stranger. “And what do you want? Get out of here unless you want t-”

A flash, then a thud, some cracking, and then a scream. The hand that held his hair came loose, and he fell to the ground again, for what must’ve been the third or fourth time today.

What just happened barely processed in his mind. The sheer odds of that happening were laughable. And yet it happened: someone came to his aid. And clearly had no intentions on holding back because their opponents were children. The leader was now crumpled on the ground, bleeding profusely from his broken nose, screaming like a lost soul.

Someone screamed. Someone else cussed. Another thud, a muffled scream, and something fell to the ground before him: one of the kids, holding his shoulder, whining like a babe. Another one soon joined him. And then the rest: one tripped, another one shoved, yet another one put down with a precise blow to the temple.

It ended as suddenly as it began. Only to begin again. The leader stood up. Hate that previously contorted his face has all but disfigured it now. Blood that still dripped from his nose and off chin only made it worse. He held a knife.

“Get out of here. Leave him alone and take your thugs with you. I won’t ask again.” What a funny accent she had.

Instead of responding, the leader screamed and threw himself at the mysterious speaker. This time, there was no flash, just a sound of leather clapping against skin, followed immediately by a sound that reminisced horribly of a dozen dry branches snapping. A blood-curdling scream followed, and something fell on the ground before his face; the very same knife that seemed so threatening not moments before. A brief glance up told him all he needed to know, as he saw the leader holding his mangled hand up to his face, his eyes locked in a combination of disbelief and horror _._ There didn’t look to be an intact bone in his entire fist.

The sound of steps immediately took up, rushing away from him, the sounds of agonised howling turning to shockingly childish sobs.

He tried to raise his head. His saviour stood before him, looking down at him with the hardened concern that could only come from someone used to seeing such cruelty and its predictable results.

He couldn’t remember how he got into the cave. She must’ve carried him after he blacked out. Whatever had happened though, it was unimportant; he was warm, dry, and as he came too, his nose caught the unmistakable but ever so inviting smell of freshly cooked porridge.

“You’re awake.”

He blinked several times to clear his sight. The blackness gave way to brown mess with a white smudge just before him. A few more blinks. The image focused.

“They got you pretty good,” she continued. She stood up from the rock and kneeled in front of him. The tip of her gloved hand caressed his forehead. He welcomed it like it was the softest silk. “But you’re a hardy one. You’ll be fine.”

She leaned back to get a better look at him. Her eyes were obscured with a fur-lined hood.

“What’s your name?”

His throat clenched. For the first time today, tears welled up in his eyes. Damned words. Of so many given to him, he couldn’t have one to call his own. He shook his head.

“You… you don’t know?” Her voice wasn’t just concerned; it was tinged with fear. And if his eyes weren’t beginning to blur with tears, he would’ve seen her own eyes darting to his scalp, as she wondered if he’d perhaps been hit harder in the head than she’d thought. “Where are your parents?”

He went to open his mouth; to spout one of the explanations he’d become used to giving the rare concerned stranger or more likely, the very bullies who constantly taunted him with this very point. Instead, as he lay there, looking into eyes still obscured by shadow, his mouth hanging open and quiet; he burst into tears, the sounds of his shaking, despairing crying quickly overcoming the gentle crackling of the fire beside them.

Something warm enveloped his face and cut his sobs short. It smelled strange and unfamiliar. Actually, the entire sensation was unfamiliar: he couldn’t recall the last time someone hugged without the intent to shatter his ribs. It was so strange. So calm. The warmth of her body felt more pleasant than that of the fire.

“Well, we can’t have that,” came a voice so gentle that he was scarcely sure he’d heard it. There was a sadness in that voice, one that he’d never quite fully grasp. “From now on, your name will be Gareth. Do you like that?”

Gareth... Gareth. His sobbing quietened, and his mind slowed from its rampant march through misery, this new idea glowing with a calming warmth in his very core. He nodded against her, and she gently hummed a glad affirmative, and let him go. He still couldn’t quite see her as clearly as he would’ve liked as he looked up at her, but for a moment, he thought he saw two orbs of colour that seemed to almost pierce the shadows peek at him. A smile lit her lips, reaching those orbs and almost seeming to alight his entire world.

“Nice to meet you, Gareth,” she said. She took off her right glove and gently brushed the tears from his cheeks. Her skin was so pale. And so soft. “My name is-”

  
  


He shot up, bathed in cold sweat. His heart banged like it wanted out of his ribcage under threat of death. No, wait. Think. It was just a dream. It wasn’t real. Just a memory, a ghost. He sighed, relieved.

A groan came from his right, and he lowered his eyes to see a hand of a petite Bosmer woman trying to drag him back down to lay with her again. Lowering himself back into the pillow, he allowed the arm to slip over his chest. On his left, red locks bounced gently over Helena’s face as she giggled in her sleep. Neither of them stirred, both being exhausted. It was a wonder he himself could move at all.

Absent mindedly, his fingers wandered to the medallion he wore. He refused to take it off even while he slept, and Helena often nagged him for it. But she didn’t need to understand his insistence. He gently picked it up, as if it weren’t made from hardened silver, but blown glass. The engraving in the cold metal was remarkably similar to her in all but once facet: the two tiny emeralds never quite managed to capture how green her eyes were.

\---

“Keep your guard up.”

“Easy for you t-ow!”

“Too slow! Don’t lower your sword unless you’re defending your legs.”

“What’s the use of this? Like the monsters I’ll face will have an-OW!”

“Monsters won’t stop to chat with you about your form either. Keep your guard up.”

Livia backed up, breathing heavily. Another swing. She managed to block this one. But she left her right flank unguarded. A pirouette was all it took for the next blow to connect. She exhaled loudly as the hard wood of the training sword struck her just under the ribs. She dropped her sword and fell to her knees, cradling the place where she was hit. Something hard nudged her shoulder.

“Again.”

Gritting her teeth, she picked up her sword and forced herself back up.

“Now, what do you do when I slash to your left?”

“I block,” she hissed. Why would he ask something so obvious.

“No. Blocking means you’re at a disadvantage. You should only willingly block when you’re trying to tire your enemy out. If you block, I’ll just change direction and hit you anyway. So, what do you do?”

She stopped to think. She could vaguely recall the vocal lessons, and wished she paid more attention to them. The answer came to her nonetheless.

“I… parry to the left.”

“Good. When you parry, you’re breaking the enemy’s flow. Parry properly, and you can turn the tide of the duel. Knock away his weapon, engage in a counterattack. Come man or beast, destroying his offence weakens his defence; leaves him vulnerable to any damage you may inflict. Now, again.”

Another swing. In the heat of the moment, she blocked instead of parrying. He spun around, aiming at her side again. Not this time. In a split second, she swept the sword down right, intercepting its twin and forcing it down. Not losing the motion, she spun around herself, raising the sword as she turned.

He stopped it just a span away from his head. The parry threw her off balance, and she stumbled. She regained her footage, and their eyes met. He was smiling.

“Not bad. Not bad at all. But I’d advise you to leave the pirouettes for later.”

She smiled back.

“That’s enough for today,” he said, throwing his sword into the barrel. “Come with me: it’s time for your theory test.”

Her smile faded: theory wasn’t as fun as practice, despite being a lot less painful. Not to mention it felt as if she forgot everything she read in the last few weeks. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, unwillingly placed her sword in the barrel and followed him to the stairs on the entrance, where they both sat down.

“Now,” he said, “what are the two most important tools in the repertoire of any monster hunter?”

“Silver and fire,” she responded, beaming: she did manage to remember something after all.

“Very good. Why is fire useful?”

“Because,” she started, stalling to formulate a sentence, “because everything can be hurt by fire. Especially the undead. And trolls stop healing when exposed to it.” she added quickly.

“Are you sure of that? Can _everything_ really be hurt by fire?”

“Wait, no. No.” She rushed to fix her goof. “Some things can’t.”

“Such as?”

“Fire atronachs,” she started. “Most dragons, too.”

“You saved yourself this time,” he said. She smiled. “And why,” he continued, “is silver important?”

“The composition of silver,” she started, certain of herself this time, “causes severe reactions with the blood and tissue of most things unnatural, including irritation, allergies, burning, magic disruption, and sometimes even death. All these are even more pronounced if the silver is introduced directly to the creature’s bloodstream.”

Now it was Gareth’s turn to smile. “Exact words of the text. I’m impressed: I thought you hated books.”

“I do,” retorted Livia. “But I liked when they talked about the swords, so I remembered that part.”

He sighed. There was no fixing her.

“Moving on,” he said. “How do you tell _Vampirus Cyrodiilum_ apart from _Vampirus Resdayinum_?”

Livia rolled her eyes. “Like it even matters: a vampire is a vam-ow!”

“Focus,” said Gareth sharply, putting down the strap he just slapper her palm with. “Now, the difference.”

Livia still sulked. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

“I think you do,” he said. “Come on, try to remember: what is it that the _Resdayinum_ can’t handle?”

“Garlic!” she cried. Of course. It was something that she believed to be a misconception her whole life. How surprised she was when she learned it was at least somewhat true. “It causes their soft tissues to swell if you feed it to them or somehow expose them to it.”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Sunlight,” she remembered. “ _Resdayinum_ will be killed by the sunlight, while it only weakens _Cyrodiilum_.”

“Correct. But that’s how one deals with them. What of their physical traits?”

She had to stop to think. “Well... _Cyrodiilum_ tend to look more like regular humans. Which means they blend better than _Resdayinum_.” She paused again. “ _Resdayinum_ don’t blend in as well: their skin is paler, they’re bony, sometimes they lose hair, and their eyes get very red.” She surprised herself with the length of her speech. She wasn’t even aware she remembered that much.

Gareth nodded in approval. “Seems you did know after all. Just needed a gentle nudge.”

Livia rubbed her palm. His definition of ‘gentle’ baffled her.

“Can we get back to training now?” she asked, trying her best to sound pleading.

Gareth unbuckled his sword belt and laid the blade onto his lap. “Unfortunately, no. The old girl here needs some maintenance.” Livia only then realized that she’d never gotten a good look at her master’s sword; despite the intriguing amount of care he took in it.

“Can I see it?” she asked sheepishly.

Gareth looked at her with a mixture of warmth and caution. He gripped the handle and gently pulled. The blade silently swished through empty air.

Livia couldn’t stop her eyes from widening as she actually got a good look at Gareth’s sword. The silvery blade gleamed magnificently in the early morning sun, despite a number of scratches on the surface. It tapered towards the tip, like the head of the spear. The hands of the crossguard arced strangely, almost like a pair of wings. She estimated it to be about a span longer than her own sword, but from the way it stood still in Gareth’s grip, it was very well balanced. What drew her attention were the engravings on the bottom, just above the crossguard. It took her a moment to realize that they were letters, unlike any language she recognised. Transfixed with the beauty of the blade she reached out to touch it. Before she laid her fingers on the cold metal, it suddenly moved away. The abruptness of the gesture snapped her out of her stupor, and her eyes darted to Gareth’s face: his gaze was as unyielding as ever, but there was something behind it. Something stern. Whatever it was, the message it relayed was clear: do not touch the sword.

“What do they say?” she asked, trying to fix her blunder.

“Honestly, I have no idea,” said Gareth with an innocent smile. “I reckon it’s the language of my mother’s homeland, but she never told me what it is. And truth be told, I never asked.”

“It was your mother’s?” she asked. She felt a pang of guilt as she realized why he was so protective about it.

Gareth said nothing for a few moments, seemingly lost in his reflection on the blade’s surface. “Yes,” he finally said, “it was.” He returned it to the scabbard and stood up. Livia followed.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked. The idea of idling for what could be a few hours almost scared her with the concept of how dull it would be. Still, she hoped he wouldn’t tell her to go catch up on her reading: it was one thing that could make that concept worse.

“Go find Thani,” he said, hanging the sword around his shoulder. “She should be awake by now. If you don’t find her, wait for her by that oak near the well.” He turned around and took a few steps up the stairway. “She’ll be in the mood to train,” he added.

Reinvigorated, Livia jogged around the castle, to the massive stone well and the ancient oak tree that loomed over it. As promised, Thanael was there, leaning on the side of the well, face turned towards the sky. When she heard Livia’s footsteps, she turned to her. A smile lit her face.

“Liv!” she called out. Before she made the next step, Livia found herself crushed in a vicious hug. Taught by experience, she said nothing. ‘Just let it happen,’ said Gareth when she’d first complained about it: saying anything in protest would upset the hug-loving young woman, and leave her in a foul mood for hours, which Livia found to be anywhere between unpleasant to genuinely saddening. When she was finally released, she made a mental tally: no broken ribs, and only three internal organs moved out of the place. Good day.

Her master was smiling even wider now. “So nice to see you!”

Livia did her best to hide the fact that she was massaging her sides, as well as amping up her visible enthusiasm. After all, the last time they’d seen each other had quite literally been just yesterday.

“It’s nice to see you too,” she said. “Gareth told me to find you if I wanted to train.”

Thanael squealed with delight, bouncing in place as if the ground beneath her was laden with springs. Livia couldn’t believe that an adult could be so excited about something.

“Come with me,” she said, grabbing her hand. She ran back towards where Livia just came from, to the more open part of the courtyard. Livia did her best to keep pace: the thought of what might happen if Thanael got the change to fully drag her by her hand was mildly frightening.

“So,” asked Thanael when they finally stopped, as Livia struggled to calm her breathing, “what style are we fighting in?”

Livia looked at her as if she just fell from Secunda. Then it dawned to her that there were likely multiple styles of fighting taught in the Order. She reminisced of the skirmish in the crypts beneath Ilinalta and shook her head: she wasn’t thinking clearly today.

“Don’t tell me he’s only been teaching you the one,” Thanael sighed; her enthusiasm visibly draining from her face. Livia nodded sheepishly, almost apologetic. Thanael shook her head lightly. “Well, we’ll have to correct that. Where’s your sword?”

“I took it to Taldryn to have it adapted and checked,” Livia said. Her lips twitched to a smile when she remembered her first visit to the scalding smithy a week ago, and seeing a grey titan vehemently cursing at a piece of studded leather that simply refused to come apart.

“And who the fuck is it now?” he bellowed, scowling violently as he turned around. But when he saw Livia, his face relaxed. He put the leather down and covered the distance between them in just three steps. He got down to one knee in front of her and lowered his massive hand on her shoulder.

“Sorry fer that, scrib,” he said in a voice that seemed like it belonged to someone else. “Thought t’was one of them idjits that always leaves the door open. Wha can I do fer ye?”

Still recovering from the initial shock, Livia only raised her hands to present the sword to the blacksmith.

“Ah, the usual,” he said as he took the sword from her. Livia had no idea what he meant by that. He lifted it up to the light and inspected it.

“Silver. Full thing, not just plate. Hardened, but fairly regressed.” His eyed wandered a bit lower, to the hilt. “Nordic. Late Second Era by the looks of it. West Kingdom.” He turned towards Livia. “Where’d’ya get this?”

Livia told him in short about how she came by the sword. Taldryn listened closely, occasionally nodding.

“Well,” he said when she finished her story, “that’s all mighty nice ‘n all, but this thing won’t be a-lasting for much longer.” Livia had been visibly dismayed by this assessment; but the giant had merely offered a throaty chuckle and a disfigured but warm smile. “Don’tcha worry. I can fix it, but it’ll have ta be melted and made anew. Ya fine with that?” Livia nodded. “Anything else ya want with it while I’m at it?” he asked.

“Yes.” Livia recovered her ability to speak. “I need it longer and narrower. With a larger pommel.”

“Of course ya do, scrib,” said Taldryn, eyeing her petite stature. “Well,” he continued as he stood up, “silver’s a bitch ta work with, so it might take a while.”

“How much do I owe you?” asked Livia, before silently cursing herself: she didn’t have any money on her.

“This one’s on the house, scrib,” said Taldryn. “Y’all need ta start with somethin’, and it wouldn’t no be right o’ me ta charge ya fer that much. Now if that’s all, scram: I got work ta do.”

Livia nodded, and left the smithy in a hurry: she didn’t understand how anyone could spend any time in there.

“It was a week ago,” said Livia, her mind returning to the present. “Do you think he’s done by now? He said it could take a while.”

“Knowing Taldryn,” Thanael started, “he probably finished it in two days or so. That’s his definition of ‘a while.’” She shrugged, smiling again. “Well, you go get your sword, and I’ll go get mine. Then we’ll get to correcting your form.”

Livia eagerly nodded and ran in the direction of castle gates. Within less than a minute, she was already at Taldryn’s smithy. She opened the door, only to be assaulted by the all too familiar heat. Nonetheless, she closed the door as soon she passed it.

“Welcome back, scrib,” spoke a familiar voice. Taldryn was at his table, pouring a stream of yellow metal into what seemed to be a pommel mould. He put the crucible away as soon as he was done and stepped towards a rack where almost a dozen finished swords lay.

“Here it is,” he said, picking up a sword with a sheath of dark leather. He handed it to her, and she took it carefully. The weight surprised her: it seemed so much lighter than it had been before, yet it was almost a thumb longer. Then again, it was much slimmer now. The grip and the cross guard had been completely replaced, and she took a moment to admire them: they were fairly plain, but still masterfully crafted. Her eyes momentarily halted on the pommel: it was a simple silver wheel, imprinted with the symbol of the Order. And yet, it was much larger than the old one.

“Pull it out,” said Taldryn. Livia obliged, and gasped in awe: the previously matt grey blade was now polished to a mirror, without even a slightest scratch on it. Her equally dazzled reflection looked back at her. The blade was now much more elegant, with a slight taper towards the tip. Livia couldn’t peel her eyes off of it.

“It’s beautiful,” she said to nobody in particular.

“Thanks for the compliment, scrib,” said Taldryn. “Need somethin’ else?”

Livia shook her head, thanked the smith, and rushed back into the courtyard casting excited glances at her new blade.

Thanael was already there, three swords leaning on a wall by her side. Livia recognized Thanael’s personal blade: a massive silver broadsword with a guard shaped like two intertwined crescents and a large blue jewel in place of a pommel. The other two swords looked relatively common.

“There you are,” gushed Thani when she saw Livia approaching. Her eyes momentarily stopped at the bare sword Livia held. She whistled, impressed.

“As expected from Taldryn,” she said. Her eyes moved to meet Livia’s. “Ready to start?” she asked.

Livia eagerly nodded. Thanael reached out and took one of the swords.

“First and foremost,” said Thanael, suddenly serious, “there are three basic styles taught in the Order for those that fight with swords, axes, and polearms. We call them Ways. While you might find some Ways more agreeable than the others, it is wise to train in all of them, as they’re all good for different occasions.”

She unsheathed the sword, carelessly tossing the sheath aside. The blade was fairly short for such a slim weapon.

“The first Way I’ll teach you about,” she continued, “is the Way of the Fox. As the animal it was named after, it is a Way of speed over all else. You must be quick, light on your feet, aiming to deal as many injuries as you can as quickly as you can. It is also a style of precision, that requires you to be able to aim for vital areas.”

Thanael gripped the sword on one hand, assumed a guard, and then swung towards some unseen opponent. At the end of the arc, she brought the sword back in a quick motion. Livia watched wide-eyed as a single simple swing transitioned into a flurry of lightning fast jabs, cuts, parries, feints, and twirls. Livia gave up on tracking the blade with her eyes, and instead listened to the almost musical swishing. The look of focus on Thanael’s face was unreal: she looked like she was really fighting for her life. With one last tremendous arc, Thanael finished her demonstration.

“Many young swordsmen,” she continued, not even out of breath, “have trouble even beginning with this Way. It is a way that calls for precision and very fast thinking. If, however, you opt for this Way as your primary one, you must remain athletic and nimble. When you try to maintain speed and precision; blocking won’t do, you must dodge reliably; or find yourself in the path of your opponent’s attack.”

Livia nodded, listening attentively. Picking up the discarded sheath, Thanael returned the sword in it and placed it back to the wall. She picked up another sword, one that was, Livia, noticed, significantly longer and wider.

“The next Way,” started Thanael, “is known as the Way of the Wolf. You might be familiar with it, as that is the Way that Gareth uses foremost and the one he likely taught you. It puts a bit less emphasis on the speed, but some more on strength, like the animal it was named after.”

Unsheathing the sword, Thanael gripped it with both hands. She swung from her hip, brought the sword about and then swung down. Not losing momentum, she turned on her heel and brought the sword up again. Even though she was already familiar with the fluent style, Livia watched her master perform it with equal attention. The demonstration was shorter than the one before that, but Livia still enjoyed seeing it.

“One of the main strengths of the Way of the Wolf,” started Thanael, “is that the attack never stops. Even when one wolf in the pack halts his attacks, the others won’t. When you fight with this Way, you embody not one wolf, but the whole pack: never stopping, never giving your enemy a chance to breathe or attack you back. This Way is also the most versatile; its method focusing on adapting the fight to swing in your favour.”

Finally, she picked up her own sword. Livia couldn’t help but notice that she didn’t toss away its scabbard, but instead gently placed leaned it against the wall.

“The last common Way,” Thanael said, “is the Way of the Bear. Just as a bear, the practitioners of this Way conquer with raw strength. Not much emphasis on active defence, so you’d be wise to wear some strong armour. The way is very simple and straightforward: cut and cleave, until it is done.”

She raised her sword and brought it down. She then stopped the swing and moved to a different one. Livia noticed how much slower her swings were, but she didn’t even for a moment think that this was because of sword’s weight: she knew Thanael did it on purpose to demonstrate the Way to her. She also noticed that she moved forward with every swing.

“This Way,” said Thanael as she finished the demonstration with a wild overhead chop, “requires the practitioner to always be in peak condition. If you become careless, this Way can lead to injuries, and not just from the monster you’re hunting. I’ve seen more than one overzealous youth pull their tendons out from swinging a sword to heavy for them over their head.”

She sheathed her sword and strapped it to her belt. She picked up the medium sword once more. “Now, you show me what you learned.”

Two hours later, Livia sat on a bench, struggling to control her breathing. In contrast with her usually meek and kind demeanour, Thanael was a ruthless trainer, and wouldn’t let Livia take a break until she proved she successfully grasped the basics of all three styles.

“How was it?” asked Thanael happily.

“I feel like I wrestled a giant and lost,” said Livia honestly.

“It’s a good way to maintain your strength,” admitted Thanael. Livia couldn’t tell if she were joking.

“I see you two’ve been having fun,” spoke a familiar voice. Livia lifted her head to see Gareth. Next to him stood a red-haired woman she came to know as Helena of Dunlain. She was dressed in a black robe with the Order’s symbol woven in the fabric above her right breast. Her left side was largely uncovered, revealing a chainmail of equal colour. She completed her appearance with black fingerless gloves and black, high heeled boots with blackened metal plates on her knees. Livia felt she didn’t need to guess her favourite colour.

“I found us a job,” he said. “It’s a high profile one, so Helena will be coming with us.”

Thanael grinned. Livia figured that working with Helena was a rare pleasure.

“Where’re we going?” she asked.

“Dawnstar,” said Helena. Livia noticed a trace of accent in her voice. “A daughter of one of the Thanes has been kidnapped, and the suspects are falmer. It’s our job to bring her back alive and wipe out the falmer. We’re leaving imminently.”

“Just a moment,” said Thanael. “If it’s the falmer we’re up against, I need to grab something from my chambers first.” She turned her head; nodding to her apprentice. “Livia, come with me.”

A few minutes of walking and several staircases brought them to an unremarkable black door. Thanael pushed it open and they entered. And Livia’s jaw dropped.

She didn’t know what to expect, but this was certainly not it; every available surface was covered with scrolls, books, pieces of parchment, inkwells and quills, crystals of various sizes, magnifying glasses, alchemical apparatus, drawings, star maps and things whose purpose Livia couldn’t even begin to guess. Even more books stood to side, neatly stored in a bookshelf, or piled in several columns. Livia wondered how anyone could live in this room: it looked more like a laboratory.

In contrast to that, the room’s northern wall was adorned with what she counted to be a two dozen swords. She recognized only several, including an extravagantly decorated Akaviri warblade. But what drew her attention were the centrepieces of the collection: four swords, all in different styles, but all with blades that gleamed even brighter than her freshly shined sword. Two of them were short, cleaver-like blades. Another one was longer, with a slim, flame-like blade. The final one was longer than even Gareth’s sword, with a sun-shaped crossguard and slightly curved top. Thanael placed her broadsword on an empty plaque next to the final one, before removing it from a wall and strapping it to her back. Livia only then noticed that every sword had a differently coloured gem in place of a pommel: alongside the previously seen blue one, she also saw two green jewels, one slightly darked than the other, one purple, and one red. The last one adorned the sword that Thani now carried.

“Here,” Thanael’s voice snapped her back. She turned to see her master standing next to something covered with sheet. “I can’t let you go out without this.” She pulled down the sheet, revealing a suit of armour mounted on a rack.

Livia gasped, her mouth stretching into a smile. “Where did you get this?” she asked, gleeful.

Thanael smiled back. “I had Taldryn make it for you. He finished it yesterday. A bit of a surprise. And trust me, you’ll need it.”

“It’s beautiful,” exclaimed Livia. And it truly was: it was a simple dark turquoise gambeson that went down to her knees, with metal chestpiece and backpiece, guards for knees, shoulders and shins. A pair of plated leather gauntlets stood at the base of the rack. A flying falcon was etched on the front of the chestpiece.

“Thank you,” whispered Livia.

“Oh don’t thank me,” said Thanael devilishly. “I paid for it out of your money. You’ll be eating bread and water for a fortnight now.”

But Livia didn’t care if she had to live like that for a month. She put her sword down and started strapping the armour on. It was surprisingly light and comfortable, and the gambeson was remarkably warm. Strangely, it fit her almost perfectly, though it was a bit too generous in the chest department. She managed to put it on by herself in just a few minutes.

“How do I look?” she asked as she buckled her last strap; resisting the urge to twirl in place.

“Like High Queen Freydis herself,” said Thanael, smiling. “Let’s go.”

Gareth and Helena waited for them near the gatehouse. When Livia approached, gleaming with pride, Gareth whistled.

“Nice suit,” he said.

“Very much so,” Helena added. Livia realized she was blushing and faced away, still smiling.

“So, Dawnstar,” started Thanael. “That’s quite a ride. Do you think we’ll get there in time?”

“Oh, we aren’t riding,” said Helena. “At least not all the way. Only until Solitude. From there to Dawnstar, we’re boarding a ship.”

“Oh no!” cried Thanael and Livia in perfect unison.


End file.
